


Fluffy Poetry Shit

by orphan_account



Series: Drabbles [7]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 02:39:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6034843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title says it all. Originally on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fluffy Poetry Shit

Sprawled across Erik’s lap you held a book in your lap as he recited a poem you know and love.  
“Whither, midst falling dew  
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day  
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue  
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowlers eye  
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong  
As, gently painted on the crimson sky,  
Thy figure floats along

Seek'st thou the plashy brink  
Of weedy lake or marge of river wide  
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink  
On the chafed ocean side

There is a Power who’s care  
Teaches thy way across the pathless coast  
The desert and illimitable air  
Lone wandering, but not lost.” At this point you had gone from mouthing the words, to a slight whisper, to recitation with your eyes closed.

“All day thy wings have fanned  
At that far height, the cold, thin, atmosphere  
Yet stoop not weary to the welcome land  
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end  
Soon shall thou find a summer home, and rest  
And scream among thy fellows, reed shall bend  
Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.”

You smiled at the memories of homeschooling and the pounds of poetry you memorized, thanking your grandmother in heaven because it was worth every late night, repeating line after line and it was worth the ghastly meter that seemed to hug every poem chosen for you, and it was worth all the classics that, be they well known, were incredulously boring. (It attributed to your vocabulary as well.) You looked behind you at Erik (he was laughably taller than you, almost by a foot and a half.), whispered something about “even the spindliest birds need to sleep” and fell asleep stretched over the Phantom of the Opera himself.


End file.
